


Sewn Shut

by The_Girl_Who_Got_Tired_of_Waiting



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AO3 1 Million, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Sherlock Kink Meme, Unpleasant Imagery, someone getting their mouth sewn shut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-03
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-14 10:52:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1263586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Girl_Who_Got_Tired_of_Waiting/pseuds/The_Girl_Who_Got_Tired_of_Waiting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You…you’re sick.” It’s all John can think of to say. “You’re insane.”</p>
<p>“Quite. So really your choice is, do you want your precious consulting detective’s mouth sewn shut by a sick, insane criminal, or by a competent medical professional?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sewn Shut

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for the kink meme (as a lot of my stories seem to be lately) which asked for Sherlock getting his mouth sewn shut. Who it was doing it and why was left up to the filler.  
> Big thanks to Gabriella for bouncing ideas with me/aiding and abetting me and to Claire for proofreading.

John has seen this before. He and Sherlock had watched a horror film where the psychopath’s mouth was sewn shut. It was supposed to be gruesome and scary; the stuff of nightmares, but Sherlock had just found it funny. He’d laughed at how fake it was, how you could see the special effects make-up. And he’d laughed because the movie really was a predictable, low budget cliché of a slasher. John had laughed too because it was true. The movie had been stupid and anyway he did find it so very easy to laugh when Sherlock was already doing so. 

John looked again at the materials laid out in front of him. There were no stage prosthetics here, no fake blood. There was no camera crew in the darkened warehouse around them. No one was waiting at a computer to hone the footage and add in all the gory details special effects could muster. There was just John, sat at this table, this equipment, and Sherlock sat across from him. And of course, the man currently stood behind John. 

“No.” Says John, as calmly as he can. The man chuckles. 

“Oh?” He asks, as if he honestly thought John might agree. He leans forwards and rests his arms on John’s shoulders. Again John sees the blade. The man moves it slowly, lazily through the air in front of John’s face as though teasing a cat with a piece of string. “Are you sure about that, Doctor Watson?” 

“Go ahead.” Says John. “By all means kill me, because I am not…doing that.” 

“Oh no, no, no.” the pressure on John’s shoulders is relieved as the man steps back. John wants to rotate his shoulders, shake off any lingering touch left on him, but he tenses even more. Because now this maniac, this sick, sadistic creep is walking around to stand behind Sherlock. He strokes the side of Sherlock’s neck, plays with a dark curl of hair. John wants to break every bone in his hand.

“What if I kill him?” The man suggests. “Better yet, I’ll do your job for you.” He taps the knife against Sherlock’s lips. “I warn you though; I’m no doctor.”

“You…you’re sick.” It’s all John can think of to say. “You’re insane.”

“Quite. So really your choice is, do you want your precious consulting detective’s mouth sewn shut by a sick, insane criminal, or by a competent medical professional?” 

“John…” it is the first word Sherlock has spoken in a while. “You-“ But it’s cut off quickly as the knife is brought down in a quick, clean cut that splits his bottom lip. 

“Thought I told you to keep quiet.” The man hisses. “Get some practice in for what’s coming to you.”

John was wrong before. He doesn’t just want to break this guy’s hand. He wants to break every bone in his body. 

John’s been trying to form a plan since they got here. The chains around John’s ankles are bolted to the floor allowing for only minimal movement forwards. He had thought that was strange at first, considering Sherlock was bound to his chair: chest, elbows, wrists, waist, thighs, knees and ankles. Now John sees why. John’s going to need his hands and arms free for the task ahead. The police don’t know they’re here. Sherlock had run ahead without telling them where they were going and John just hurried along afterwards. They’ll catch on eventually, put together the evidence and half explained deductions Sherlock left behind, but that could take hours. They don’t have hours. Or rather, they do, and that is exactly the problem. 

Sherlock has gone quiet again. He’s not meeting John’s eyes. He’s not struggling. He’s not trying to tap out Morse code on the floor. He’s out of ideas too. Only leaves one, impossible option. 

John looks again at the table, the needle, the sutures. He raises one faltering hand but freezes almost instantly.

“I can’t.” He says. “I wo-I can’t do that to him.” 

“Sure you can.” Says their tormenter, with all the certainty and jovialness of a school boy trying to goad a friend on in a dare. “Just think of it as sewing up a big, nasty wound to stop it getting infected. Stop it bleeding out. The patient needs you, Doctor Watson, because there’s an even greater chance he’ll bleed more if I do it. My needlework leaves a lot to be desired I’m afraid. I’d probably need a few goes to get it right, jabbing around. Maybe I could do some practice stitches in his cheek first to get my eye in…”

“Alright, alright.” John’s shaking all over now. He reaches again for the needle, this time picking it up with trembling fingers. It is medical grade. Sharp. Looks fresh. John supposes he should be grateful for small mercies at this point. 

“All perfectly sanitary, I can assure you.” Says that calm, casual tone. 

“How can I believe you?”

There’s no response. John looks up and sees the man is smirking. His fingers are tapping a staccato beat on Sherlock’s shoulder. There is of course no way John can be sure. John had thought the candle on the table, one of the few points of light in the room, was there for dramatic fucking effect. Now it has an all too clear purpose. 

Sherlock smiles grimly at John and gives his head a tiny, almost imperceptible, nod. Christ, he was actually giving John permission to do this. John can’t bear to look at his resolute, determined face any longer. 

He passes the needle through the flame. The candle gutters and spits, burning John’s fingers. He tells himself not to flinch, removes the needle only when he is ready. Not that he will ever be ready for this.

It takes him far more goes than it should to thread the needle. He’s done this hundreds of times before. This should be the easiest part. Eventually he manages it and presses the needle against his own palm first to check it’s not still hot. He realises for the first time how very thick the needle seems to be. He can’t stall any longer. Again he has to look at Sherlock. 

“I’m sorry. God, Sherlock, I’m so, so sorry.” 

Sherlock gives him that almost smile again. John thinks he can feel his own heart breaking. The moment doesn’t last of course. 

“Touching. But I don’t believe I asked for a running commentary.” There’s a hard smack and Sherlock’s head jolts forwards from the force of the blow. “Get on with it, Doctor.” 

John edges forwards in his seat, as close as he could get to Sherlock. 

“I think little cross stitches would be best, don’t you?” The man makes traces little x marks over Sherlock’s lips to demonstrate. “Nice and neat and tight for him.” 

“I said alright.” John hisses through clenched teeth. “I’ll do it just shut up.” 

The man steps to one side to get a better view. 

John gently takes Sherlock’s chin in his free hand and tilts it towards the light. The first touch of the needle against Sherlock’s bottom lip has John fighting not to vomit. 

“Come on, I bet you’ve thought of doing this before. I know what a mouthy little bitch he can be. Bet you’ve longed to shut him up. Seal that irritating mouth of his.” And God would this man just stop talking and let John _think_?

The first incision and Sherlock flinches, badly. He can’t help it. John can see he’s trying not to with every fibre of his being. He pulls the thread through. Sherlock makes, not a cry, but a soft, desperate noise like that of a small animal you’ve just kicked. John nearly gives up then and there. 

“Fine.” Whispers Sherlock. He’s barely moving his lips but he shudders with the pain. “I’m fine.” 

John strokes Sherlock’s cheek with the back of his hand. 

“Shush, just shush. I’m sorry…It’ll be over soon” John hates himself for saying those words and wants to take them back almost at once. He sounds like a rapist or an abuser. Like he might add ‘It’s for your own good’. He completes the first stitch and begins a second, crossing over like he was told.

“Oh yeah…you’ve definitely thought about doing this before.” John swears he will cut out this man’s tongue if he ever gets a chance. 

His hands are shaking so badly on the next stitch that it pulls, tears slightly. Sherlock groans and closes his eyes. 

“Jesus, fuck.” John swears, having to shut his eyes tight too for a moment. Calm down, He tells himself. You need to keep it together for Sherlock. He fights to get his body under control. This is not at all aided by the honest to goodness giggle that sounds from the left of him.

“No need to rush, John. We’ve got all the time in the world.” 

John opens his eyes and focuses on Sherlock. He can do this. He’s seen severed veins and skin ripped wide open and he’s dealt with it and sewn whatever poor bastard is on the table that day back together again. He’s stopped people bleeding to death this way. Usually they don’t complain about the stitches. They’re too relieved to finally be taken care of. And anyway they’ve had a lot of pain relief by that point. No pain relief for Sherlock though.

Even if his patients did cry out, John knows sometimes you have to make a smaller wound to prevent a bigger one. He once had to remove a man’s foot in order to save the leg.

Just think of it as an injury. A cut.

No. Thinking of Sherlock’s mouth as a wound does not help at all.

Pinpricks of blood begin to ooze up around the stitches. John starts to dab them away with the sleeve of his shirt but stops when he realises he’s hurting Sherlock more than he is helping him. By the time he has sealed half of Sherlock’s mouth with the neatest, most gentle stitches he can, Sherlock has gone chalk white and is shivering. John does at least put an extra stitch in the cut left by the blade. It’s the least he can do. 

John knows the look on Sherlock’s face. He is trying to retreat inside his mind palace. He’s trying to block out everything around him. It’s not working this time. John wishes he could do the same. He keeps making pointless soothing noises that are doing no soothing whatsoever. His free hand strokes Sherlock’s face almost automatically. 

Sherlock had been near silent for most of the procedure but now starts to make little groaning sounds in his throat. Something wet touches John’s hand and he realises Sherlock is crying. That is so wrong, so out of place. John has seen Sherlock cry on cue as cases require. He has seen Sherlock reduce others to tears on more than one occasion. But Sherlock crying? Actually genuinely crying? No. John tries to tell himself that it’s just his eyes watering. Reaction to stimulus. Now he sounds like Sherlock even inside his own brain. 

John finishes the last stitch, cuts the thread and sits back to look at what he’s done. This time he really is sick. He just has the presence of mind to turn to one side and he is vomiting the contents of his stomach onto the floor. He continues to heave even when he is empty. His bones seem to have melted. He flops down in his chair and covers his face with his hands. 

“Nng. Nnn!” 

John looks up quickly at the stifled sound Sherlock is making. Sherlock, who had been so still while going through what must have been hell, is now struggling in his seat. 

“Nn.” He says again and John realises that Sherlock might be trying to say his name. Sherlock’s eyes are wide with concern and he’s fighting to get closer. Trying to check if John is alright. John almost laughs at how utterly wrong that is. Someone else really is laughing, of course. 

“That’s perfect. You actually did it. That’s just fucking fantastic!” The lunatic John had been working very hard to ignore steps forwards once more. John can feel an animalistic growl building inside as he watches the man touch Sherlock again. He scrubs one thumb roughly over bound lips making both Sherlock and John cringe. 

“That’s fucking beautiful.”

“Leave him alone.” It takes a great effort for John to speak at all, even more for him to keep his voice from breaking. “Haven’t you done enough?”

“Me? I didn’t do this. This was all you John.”

John isn’t sure who he hates more, this man, or himself. 

Half of Scotland Yard burst in some time later. Lestrade shoots the man in the arm and part of John thinks he deserves that bullet just as much.

~

Sherlock is freezing cold. He is wrapped in his own coat, plus John’s, plus Greg’s, plus one of those foil blankets courtesy of the ambulance crew, and he is still shivering. John leads him out with a hand on his back, the other on his wrist to keep him standing. John’s cold too in the autumn air but the taller man’s skin still feels like ice by comparison. Sherlock has his head bowed, hand up to cover his mouth, but everyone has already seen. John keeps his arms around Sherlock just until they reach the waiting ambulance and the paramedics can take over. 

He’s left standing alone at the kerb. A constant stream of people have been asking him if he’s ok and he’s said yes to all of them. There is barely a scratch on him. Small lacerations around his ankles. A very minor head injury, more bruising than anything else, where he was initially knocked unconscious for a brief period. Lingering nausea that has nothing to do with any other physical symptoms. They will check him over eventually but right now he doesn’t want to distract any medical attention away from Sherlock. One set of paramedics already have to deal with the bullet wound to that animal’s shoulder despite just about everyone privately thinking it would be better if he was just left there to bleed. 

John would very much like to distract the attention of everyone who is not important to Sherlock’s wellbeing right now. There seems to be a great number of people here. Surely half of them are not necessary. There are two people in particular John has his deepest suspicions are here for no other reason than to see what mess Sherlock has gotten himself into now. 

Anderson and Donovan are standing close to John. They don’t look quite so sure of themselves anymore. Anderson has gone a nasty shade of grey. Donovan keeps shifting her weight, fiddling with the cuff of jacket, unable to stand still. Sherlock is being guided into the back of the ambulance, zombielike, doing as he’s told. Donovan nudges Anderson. 

“Well,” She says, voice gone high and uneven. “Who would have thought that’s all it took to keep his big mouth shut?” Anderson laughs, dully, and John sees red. 

“Sally!” Says Greg. He steps in between them and John and John’s glad because he doesn’t know what he might have done if there was not a human barrier there. “Enough!” 

Sally looks mortified to have been overheard. 

“I wasn’t…I didn’t mean…”

“I don’t care what you meant. Look around you. Now is not the time for, for,” Greg gestures wildly around at Sally and Philip, and the ambulance Sherlock has disappeared into. He rubs at his forehead. “Look, just go.” 

“But-“

“Just. Go! Both of you!” 

John watches as the pair shuffle off looking rather like they’ve just been scolded by a teacher. Greg turns back to John. 

“Are you ok, John?”

“Why does everyone keep asking me that?” John sighs heavily. “I’m fine. And thanks.” 

“You’re not fine.” Says Greg, but he doesn’t push the issue. He changes the subject as much as he can. “They reckon Carter’s going to be alright.” It takes John a moment to realise who ‘Carter’ must be. Funny. He didn’t even know his name until now. Greg smiles darkly. “But I wouldn’t put my money on that. Not when Sherlock’s brother finds out about this.” 

Mycroft. John had not even thought of Mycroft until now. Greg was right. He’d put Carter’s chances of survival as very minimal. He‘s not sure what will happen if Mycroft ever finds out who had been the one holding the needle but he’s sure it’s not pretty. Everyone is currently under the impression it was Carter who did it. John is happy to let them believe that for as long as possible.

There is a commotion from the back of the ambulance and John and Greg both look up. They can hear the medical staff using placating tones and can also hear a great deal of shuffling and scuffling about going on. The both round the edge of the open ambulance door, apprehensive of what they might see. 

Sherlock had apparently been attempting to leave. He has shed his pile of coats but is still clutching the foil sheet to himself as he struggles against the three paramedics trying to hold him down to the bed. His efforts to be free redouble at the appearance of John.

“Nng!” 

“Really Mr. Holmes.” Says one paramedic, a woman with blonde hair clipped back out of her face. Even she looks pale. This isn’t the sort of thing you see every day even in her line of work. “You must stop trying to talk; you’ll only make things worse.” 

“Nnhng!” 

“We’re trying to help you.” The woman sounds on the verge of pleading which John knows will not endear her to Sherlock. “We need to take the stitches out.” 

Far from calming Sherlock, his eyes go wide with panic and he shakes his head vigorously. He motions towards John, shoving the female paramedic in the chest as he does so. All three turn round. 

“I’m sorry, who are you?” asks the woman, rubbing at her sternum where Sherlock elbowed her. 

“I’m John…John Watson. I’m his flatmate, his friend.”

“ _Doctor_ John Watson.” Lestrade adds quickly. John frowns. He has had enough of people calling him ‘doctor’ tonight. 

“Oh I see.” Says the paramedic. She turns back to Sherlock, attempting a gentle expression. “Mr. Holmes, would you like your friend to be the one to remove the stitches?”

Sherlock nods and rolls his eyes with an air that tells John if he was speaking he would be saying “Finally.”

“Wait, hang on!” Says John. He’s not prepared for this. He’s the one who did this to Sherlock, he shouldn’t be the one to care for him afterwards. But then he looks again at Sherlock. His eyes are pink tinged. Blood still crusts around his lips. There’s movement inside his mouth; biting the inside of his cheek. Maybe it’s the absence of the thick coat, or the presence of the overlarge blanket, but he looks so small. John can’t leave Sherlock like this. 

“Alright.” 

He climbs into the back of the ambulance and goes to Sherlock’s side. The other man reaches out one arm and John takes his hand, guiding him to lay back down. John perches on the edge of the gurney. He hesitates, just as he had before starting to stitch. This time it is Sherlock who reaches for John and strokes his face. John nods once and gets to work. 

Each stitch removed should be a little weight off of John. It’s another little stab at his chest.

When the act is done John sits back up and starts reaching for the antiseptic he’ll need to apply. Sherlock’s tongue comes out to lick at his raw lips and he raises one hand to rub. John’s quick to stop him with a hand around his wrist.

“Don’t do that.” He mumbles. “You’ll make it worse.”

“Ah, John.” Says Sherlock, smiling even as it hurts. “My wonderful John. Thank you.” 

John breaks at those words. He screams loud enough to be heard in the street and sobs angry tears into his clenched fists. No one seems to know what to say to help.

~

At first, John thinks things might be ok. Sherlock is a little quieter than normal. He shuffles from one room of the flat to another without passing comment on the way John is sitting or the way he’s tied his shoes or the angle at which Mrs Hudson has left the tea tray at. But that’s good. Sherlock’s supposed to not be talking much, to give his mouth a chance to heal. 

Blood tests come back clear. The marks around Sherlock’s mouth are fading, albeit very slowly. If they’re lucky, most won’t scar. John hopes so because every time he sees them he feels fresh waves of guilt. He tries to distract himself. He attempts to work a shift at the surgery. An endless list of colds, coughs, infections, minor injuries should be enough to get his mind to work without dwelling too much. It doesn’t work like that though. One of his patients is a girl who needs stitches to her forehead. John tries, really does, and finds he can’t do it. All he can see is the last time he held a needle in his hands, the last time his fingers performed those delicate movements. 

John tries his best to help Sherlock by leaving a respectful distance around Sherlock in everything he does. He’s sure Sherlock won’t want him near now. John buys in multi packs of soup, and yogurt and other food that takes minimal amounts of effort to eat. He watches Sherlock flinch as the cold metal of a spoon touches his lips. John goes straight back out again and gets a multi pack of plastic cutlery and a set of straws so that Sherlock can sip cold drinks; tea and coffee are far too hot for his healing skin at the moment. 

As the days pass however, it becomes clear that Sherlock is not doing as well as first thought. He is retreating further into himself. He plays screeching violin solos that would normally have John yelling at him and possibly hiding said violin for a period of time until Sherlock agreed to behave. He conducts experiments that render the kitchen virtually unusable. John just orders take away and retreats to his bedroom.  
John returns to the flat one afternoon to find Sherlock chain smoking his way through a pack of cigarettes. He doesn’t pass comment and gets on with his evening whilst steadfastly ignoring the fug of smoke in the air. 

After a week Sherlock is on the phone to Lestrade, practically begging for another case. He has the phone on speaker so that he can leave his hands free to adjust the microscope and the slides he is currently studying. 

“Please.” Sherlock grits out. That must have taken a lot of mental effort. “I am going out of my mind here. I need a case. We need a case.”

“Leave me out of this.” John calls from his armchair. There is a soft thud. Sherlock has possibly thrown something at his chair. John doesn’t get up. 

“There haven’t been any fresh cases.” Lestrade’s voice sounds through the flat. “It’s only been seven days, Sherlock.” 

“Then give me an old case.” 

There is a pause in which John wonders if Lestrade might actually be considering this. 

“It’s not just about the lack of cases, Sherlock.” Greg says eventually. John stops reading his newspaper. He has been rereading the same line at least five times anyway. “I’m not sure you’re ready for another case yet. Not after what’s just happened.”

John silently agrees with Greg. Sherlock huffs exasperatedly.

“Alright, fine, I promise I’ll be a good boy and I’ll tell you exactly where I’m going and I won’t run off without backup. I’ll obey all the timewasting rules you insist upon. Happy?” 

John frowns. Surely Sherlock can’t seriously think that’s what the issue is here?

“What?” Greg asks incredulously. “No, that’s not what this is about! You can’t surely think that’s what this is about!”

“Then what else is there?” Sherlock slams his hand on the table. Greg attempts to calm him. 

“You’re supposed to be resting. You need time to recover. After what you’ve just been through no one expects you to be back on full form straight away. Even Sally was saying the other day-“

“I don’t _care_ what Donovan said about me!” Sherlock yells. “I am perfectly f-OW!” 

John casts his paper to one side instantly and swivels in his seat to see what’s wrong. Sherlock is hunched over, pressing his fingers to his lips. John jumps to his feet and hurries to Sherlock’s side, grabbing the phone up and turning it off speaker as he does.

“Sherlock? Sherlock are you ok? What’s happened?” Greg is saying as John presses it to his ear. 

“It’s me.” John tries to get a look at Sherlock’s mouth. 

“John. What’s wrong? Is Sherlock hurt?”  
“I think he just strained the wounds a bit. He’s not supposed to be shouting.” John thinks he spots blood on Sherlock’s fingertips. “I’ll call you back later.” He hangs up without waiting for a response. 

John stands uselessly for a second before going to the bathroom to retrieve his first aid kit and to give Sherlock a chance to recompose himself. 

Sherlock is still in the same position as John left him in when he gets back. 

“Sherlock?” He tries. No response. John pulls a chair out from under the kitchen table and sits in front of Sherlock. This position is horribly reminiscent but John ignores that thought very firmly. 

Slowly, he coaxes Sherlock to drop his hands so he can get a better look at the damage done. It’s not as bad as he feared with only two of the healing marks reopened. John gets out cotton wool to clean away the blood. John expects even Sherlock to be quiet now. He’s certainly not expecting what Sherlock says next.

“Why is everyone so determined to let him win?” The words are slightly thick as John tends to him. John hesitates, trying to put what he’s just heard into context.

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean,” Sherlock exhales deeply. “This. All of this. All of you treating me like I might break. I am not an invalid.”

“No one said you were.”

“No but you all act like it.” Sherlock swipes John’s hands away from his mouth so he can speak freely. “All of you. Mrs Hudson crying just about every time she looks at me. Lestrade banning me from cases ‘for my own good’. My brother phoning me every single day. You-“

“What have I done?!”

“You’ll barely even look at me! You can’t even stand to be in the same room as me half the time. I may be a freak who had his mouth sewn shut, John, but it’s not catching.”

Silence falls in the room like a thick cloud. John gapes, speechless for a time. 

“Is that really what you think?” He asks after what seems like an age. 

“Isn’t it what you think?” sneers Sherlock. 

“No. Just…no.” How could Sherlock think that? “I thought you wouldn’t want me near you. I thought you wanted space.”

“Why on earth would I want that?”

“Because…Because I am the one who bloody well sewed your mouth shut, Sherlock. I’m the one who hurt you more than anyone should ever have to be hurt. You honestly want me around after that?”

“Of course.” Says Sherlock, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “None of that was your fault. You did what you had to do under duress and you probably saved my life by doing it.”  
“That doesn’t make it right.”

“No. It makes Carter a very sick, twisted individual who will never see the light of day again. You did the right thing.” 

“Are you saying you’d do it? If the situations had been reversed, could you have done it to me, and then just carried on like everything was normal?” John asks it before remembering that this is Sherlock he’s talking to and he might not like the answer he gets. He’s surprised when Sherlock hesitates, frowning as he mulls the question over. 

“I don’t know. Maybe.” He shrugs. “If it meant saving your life then yes, I suppose I would. I doubt I would do it with as much calm as you did, and I doubt I would feel good about it afterwards. But if it meant saving your life, I’d do it.” 

“There you go then. You just said it. ‘I wouldn’t feel good about it afterwards’.” 

“Oh, John.” Sherlock rests his hand on John’s knee. “You have nothing to feel bad about. The same would go for me if the tables were turned. We would both just be letting sentiment over rule us.”

“I thought you didn’t do sentiment.” John rests his Hand on top of Sherlock’s. He was going to move it away but instead finds himself entwining their fingers. It feels nice. Nicer than anything has felt since that dreaded warehouse. 

“As I just said, when you’re involved, I seem to do a great number of things that I would not normally.” And as if to prove his point Sherlock leans forward and kisses John.

John doesn’t even kiss back at first, so shocked is he by this sudden development. He just sits there and lets Sherlock’s mouth press against his own. Muscles John didn’t even know were tense loosen. A weight he has been holding for the past days of hell lifts. It’s as Sherlock starts to pull away that John responds at last, squeezing their hands together tighter and reciprocating the kiss as gently as his want allows. Sherlock will be grinning that smug self-satisfied smile when they finish. That one he reserves for when he has just proved a very irritating point. ‘I told you so.’ 

John can feel a small amount of blood being transferred onto his skin and he thinks _We are not doing this again_. 

Not until Sherlock’s mouth has healed fully.


End file.
